


to a buried and a burning flame

by demogorgns



Category: IT (2017), IT (2019), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Bar & Bat Mitzvah, Deleted Scenes, First Kiss, M/M, Short One Shot, and the title from a hozier song, stealing the nose-break kiss from brokeback mountain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-24 04:58:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21093779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demogorgns/pseuds/demogorgns
Summary: "And since today, apparently, Stanley was telling truths, and doing stupid things, he decided in that split second, stood in that shaft on sunlight on that endless summer afternoon outside Derry’s one and only synagogue, to do the stupidest thing of all."The aftermath of Stan's bar mitzvah, reckless behaviour, and sunlight.





	to a buried and a burning flame

**Author's Note:**

> based off this text post: https://georgiedenbrough.tumblr.com/post/188427801806/imagine-thinkin-richie-didnt-run-out-after-stan-at

“Stan! Stanley, wait up!”

Stan, half-running, half-falling, shaking with adrenaline, paused in the middle of the sidewalk outside the synagogue. Richie, bent double and panting dramatically, shoved his glasses back up his sweaty nose.

“Holy shit, dude.”

“Yeah. Holy shit.”

“…You okay?”

_Good question. _Physically, Stan’s heart was lodged somewhere in his throat, beating like a drum, his cheeks fever-hot, his hands shaking alarmingly, sweat running in cold rivers down his back. Emotionally…he felt like he could eat the planet.

“Stan?”

Stan blinked, and his surroundings came back into focus as Richie stepped forward and placed a hand on his shoulder. His eyes, already permanently magnified to an expression of perpetual surprise by his glasses, were even bigger than usual.

Stan’s own eyes were still adjusting to the brilliant summer sunshine after the gloom of the interior of the synagogue, but as he blinked the glare away he suddenly became aware that the world seemed somehow richer than it had before – more colour, more detail. He could hear the drone of insects and faint birdsong and the cars the next road over, feel the sunlight beating down on him through his clothes, see every freckle on Richie’s face.

Richie’s face. He was saying something, but Stan couldn’t hear him over the blood rushing in his ears. His mouth was moving – when wasn’t it? – but Stan was too far gone to hear, lost in his soft curve of his lips, his stupidly long eyelashes, the still weight of his hand on Stan’s shoulder. The rush of blood was getting louder, Stan’s heart as frantic as a rabbit in the headlights.

And since today, apparently, Stanley was telling truths, and doing stupid things, he decided in that split second, stood in that shaft on sunlight on that endless summer afternoon outside Derry’s one and only synagogue, to do the stupidest thing of all.

“- And did you see the looks on their stupid fucking faces, they couldn’t believe you finally grew a pair right in front of –”

Stan firmly grabbed Richie by the lapels of his ugly powder blue suit, and smashed their lips together hard enough to break Richie’s nose.

Richie, eyes open wide, stumbled back a little, only held up by Stan’s death-grip on his jacket. Their lips separated long enough for Richie to mumble “Ow,” into Stan’s chin, before Stan released his jacket to cup Richie’s face and resume kissing him. This time, Richie’s eyes fluttered closed.

Stan had no sense of how long he stood there with his hands tangled in Richie’s dark hair, fingers digging right to the scalp, how tightly he pressed him against his body, how many times he sucked Richie’s lower lip into his mouth. Time dripped like amber. It felt like everything he had ever bottled up inside, in his whole life, the frustrations he had only partly aired back in the synagogue, were being poured out into Richie’s mouth.

Then, just as suddenly as it had come up, the high from the adrenaline crashed down. Stan felt all the energy drain from his body, his arms falling limp from Richie’s face, and suddenly he had to pull away and sit down on the hot asphalt as his trembling legs threatened to fold underneath him.

“Shit, Stan! You okay?”

Stan buried his head in his hands. “Oh, God,” he mumbled blankly. “I just ruined my bar mitzvah.”

“Uh, yeah,” Richie said, sitting down heavily beside him. He rubbed a hand over his lips, still tingling from the working-over Stan had given them. _Stan. _Stan the Man. Stanley Uris, M.D. Richie felt a crazed laugh bubbling inside his chest and choked it back down. _Stan just kissed me. On the mouth. With _his_ mouth. Oh, God._

“_Uh, yeah?_ What the hell, man! I totally just ruined my bar mitzvah! My dad’s gonna kill me!”

“Stan, calm down,” Richie said, dazed, reaching to place a comforting hand on Stan’s shoulder completely on autopilot. “I just kissed a guy for the first time. We’re all having a weird day.”

Stan let out a shaky laugh. “Sorry about that, man.”

“Nothing to be sorry for. Except maybe that I think you chipped a couple of my teeth.” Richie’s hand fell from Stan’s shoulder and felt for his hand instead, caught it, and held it tight.

_“Stanley!”_

Both boys’ heads whipped around in comical unison at the shout from the steps of the synagogue.

_“Dad -”_

“Oh, _shit -_”

Before Stan could think, Richie was pulling him up and they were both running down the street, Richie’s hand a vice-like grip on Stan’s, nearly yanking his arm from his socket. They pounded around at least four different corners and over two roads, running mindlessly at first; and then, as the sheer ridiculousness of the situation began to dawn on them, with purpose and exhilaration, hands held tight, grinning like thieves. They ran, and ran, until their lungs screamed at them to stop, and found that their feet had taken them nearly into the centre of town.

“Jesus Christ – wish I had Eddie’s inhaler right about now -”

“Tell me about it –”

They just stood and caught their breath for a moment, slow grins beginning to spread over their faces.

“Now what?” Stan finally asked.

Richie shrugged. “Whatever you want.”

“I can’t go back there. I know I should, but I – I just can’t.”

“Then don’t. Let’s go hide somewhere for a little while and forget about it. You want ice cream? I swear there’s an ice cream place a few blocks from here…”

Stan’s grinned widened. “Yeah. Okay. Ice cream.”

They walked close together, barely a hint of daylight between them; and although they couldn’t hold hands, not there, not in Derry, their fingers brushed together with every stride.

Twenty-seven years later, watching the dust motes spiral in the shafts of sunlight piercing the stuffy darkness of that same synagogue, Richie Tozier smiled. 

“Thanks for showing up, Stanley.”


End file.
